


rose and thorn

by dicaeopolis



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, F/F, Gen, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Post-Canon, Punk, Summer, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-17 13:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8145913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicaeopolis/pseuds/dicaeopolis
Summary: Tanaka Saeko falls in love with the tattoo artist next door over the course of a Miyagi summer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ULTIMATE THANKS TO [AMBER](http;//www.twitter.com/ambyguity_) FOR BEING [THE IMPETUS](http://hq-rare-pairs.tumblr.com/post/145273721894/i-need-to-yell-abt-how-much-i-love-kiyosae) BEHIND THIS FIC AND ALSO HELPING ME GET MY SHIT TOGETHER ON FINISHING IT ILY <33
> 
> ty to [betsy](http;//www.twitter.com/owlinaminor) for betaing and [rhonnie](http;//www.twitter.com/ryonello) for some artistic assistance!!
> 
> important disclaimer: I am not a tattoo artist please do not take this fic as word of god on tattoo care
> 
> ALSO by virtue of the bokuoikuroo, this is for [ot3 week](hqot3week.tumblr.com) day 2: punk!!
> 
> and promo posts are on my [tumblr](http://vivasimplemindedness.tumblr.com/post/150988154428/rose-and-thorn) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/dickaeopolis/status/780583264817934336)!

The first time Tanaka Saeko meets Kiyoko Shimizu, she’s bleeding.

(Saeko, that is. After their first meeting, she isn’t sure if Kiyoko is  _ capable _ of being physically harmed, and if so, her blood certainly wouldn’t be red like Saeko’s - it would be deep blue, like the nobility that shines in her fine features and regal bearing, or golden ichor, on the grounds that Saeko is pretty sure Kiyoko is quite literally a goddess.)

Saeko is bleeding because she’s pricked her finger on  _ another _ damn thorn, and, honestly, she’s on the verge of just selling the damn roses, thorns and all - goddamn boys can apologize to their girlfriends with their own blood, sure would sweeten the apology a bit-

The bell over the shop door jingles as it swings open. Saeko glances up, then immediately drops her knife to the counter with a loud clatter.

The woman hesitating just inside the door is quite possibly the most beautiful person Saeko has ever seen. Silky black hair falls around her face in two glossy curtains, silver-rimmed glasses frame her knowing grey eyes, and her features are fine and delicate and lovely. She’s wearing battered skinny jeans and a plain black tank top, and her bare arms are inked with an exquisite pair of sleeve tattoos. As the woman glides between Saeko’s flowers to approach the counter, Saeko can make out the details of the sleeves - deep, blood-red roses nestled amongst twining vines of harsh barbed wire.

“Pardon the intrusion.”

The woman’s voice is quiet but assertive, and Saeko realizes with a jerk that she’s been staring. “Uh - s’all good.”  _ Eloquent, Tanaka, _ she chides herself. “Can I help you with anything?”

The woman flashes a smile - small, fleeting, lovely. “Thank you, but I’m actually here to ask a favor.”

“Sure. Yes. Anything.” Shit, that may have been too much. “Within reason.”

The woman laughs, and Saeko’s heart just about grows wings and ascends to heaven. “Thank you. I’m an artist at the tattoo parlor next door, and our bathroom is out of service. We were hoping our customers might be able to use yours? Only for today. We have a plumber coming in this afternoon.”

Saeko nods - too jerky. “Uh huh. No problem. Just send em over.”

“Thank you very much. Oh - I’m Shimizu Kiyoko.” Kiyoko bows.

“Tanaka Saeko.” Saeko returns the gesture as best as she can from her perch on the stool behind the counter.

“And,” Kiyoko goes on, “if there’s anything we can do to return the favor-”

“Lunch,” Saeko blurts out. Kiyoko stops mid-sentence, mouth hanging open in a perfect, adorable  _ o _ . “With, uh. With me. We could. Eat food. If you want.”

_ Smooth as a brick, Tanaka. _

Kiyoko’s surprise fades into amusement, along with - thank god - consideration. “That would be nice,” she says, and Saeko relaxes about a mile. “I’ll come by on my break tomorrow?”

Saeko nods, and rides the adrenaline rush all the way through Kiyoko’s final thanks and departure from the flower shop.

* * *

Saeko’s walk to work the next morning is sunny and warm. But when she glances out the front window later that day, towering steel-gray clouds have swallowed the bright blue sky, their underbellies tinged with yellow. Before long, the sky’s rumbling and splitting with the storm. The rain starts even before the sunlight’s fully gone, drumming against the windowpanes and sheeting down off the overhang in front of Saeko’s shop.

Kiyoko comes by anyway, with a bomber jacket slung around her shoulders and an umbrella big enough for two. Saeko is a little more prepared this time, but her neighbor is still stunning. She  _ really _ has no right to look so graceful in a bulky, shapeless old army surplus coat. It’s something about the roses, Saeko thinks, as they peek out from the sleeves of the thing to wind down onto the backs of Kiyoko’s hands, delicate and tough.

They walk into town under the umbrella, Saeko’s heart thrumming at the closeness. “Sushi?” she suggests, to distract herself. “My drumming group goes to a really good place downtown after competitions sometimes.”

“Sounds good,” Kiyoko agrees. “You’re in a drumming group?”

“Yeah!” says Saeko, immediately latching onto the thread of conversation. “Taiko. It’s intense, but it’s a ton of fun.”

Kiyoko hums. “That must be the reason your shoulders look so strong.” Her voice is soft, but curling with sly flirtation. Saeko flushes, preens.

And from there they’re talking about taiko, and then historical taiko, and then Japanese history and the era of shogunates and civil war. It’s a bit of a relief, as the bell over the door of the restaurant jingles when they step out of the rain, that Kiyoko is quiet but not short-spoken. When Saeko’s nervous about filling a silence, she tends to ramble, but that’s not the only reason she’s grateful - Kiyoko is intelligent, thoughtful, but without a trace of pretention.

The air in the entryway is brisk and cool where it presses up against the rain. Kiyoko shakes off her umbrella and props it up in the rack next to the door, and Saeko leads her to her favorite table - the one nestled in the nook of the big front window, where they can watch the driving rain. Kiyoko shrugs off the bomber jacket and slings over the back of her chair, leaving her arms exposed. The tattoos get a surprised look from the guy behind the bar, but it doesn’t matter - he’s definitely seen weirder. Saeko knows that because she and her drumming group  _ are _ the weirder. If the staff here can deal with that noisy herd of percussionists, they can deal with Kiyoko’s delicate barbed roses.

“Those are fucking rad, by the way,” Saeko says, nodding at the tattoos in question. She probably could’ve phrased that prettier, but whatever.

“Hmm? Oh - thanks, they’re some of my oldest.” Kiyoko turns her arm upside down, runs her thumb over where the vines continue down the smooth skin. “I think I was… twenty or so? It’s been a while.”

“In college?”

“Nope,” Kiyoko says, and Saeko is oddly tickled by the fact that such an ethereal creature can utter a word such as ‘nope’. “I apprenticed right out of high school. The sleeves were to celebrate the end of my apprenticeship.”

They pause for a moment to order, and once the skinny young waiter is gone, Kiyoko asks, “Did you go to school for floristry?”

“Oh, the shop? It was a family business,” Saeko says. “My parents passed away when I was in high school, so I raised my little brother until he graduated and then moved back here to take it over again.”

“That must’ve been hard on you,” Kiyoko observes.

Saeko lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “He’s a good kid. A little rowdy, but his heart’s the size of the galaxy. He’s off working on some deep-sea fishing boat now. It suits him.” She props her chin up on her hands. “How about you? Any family?”

Kiyoko shakes her head. “I was an only child, and my parents-” her eyes flick down to the barbed-wire roses, then up at Saeko- “don’t approve.”

Saeko cocks her head. “How long’s it been?”

Kiyoko’s brow furrows adorably as she thinks. “Um… Ten years or so? They wanted me to go to college, that’s when it started… I moved to Tokyo after high school instead and apprenticed at a parlor there. That’s how I met my coworker; he was apprenticing down the block.”

“You’re close, huh?” Saeko hadn’t missed the note of fondness in Kiyoko’s voice when she mentioned her co-artist.

“Mm. He’s my best friend. It was rare to find other gay people, even in the city, but it’s more than that. We’re very different - he’s much more talkative, and better with people, I think - but also very similar.”

Saeko glances up at her. “How so?”

Kiyoko hums a little. “Well, for one thing, we both like blondes.”

It takes Saeko a moment to process that - but when she does, her cheeks flood deep red.  _ “Kiyoko!” _

Kiyoko starts giggling, which only makes Saeko’s blush worse. And when she accidentally snorts, then covers her mouth with a look of abject mortification in her eyes, Saeko starts laughing instead, and finally Kiyoko relaxes and joins in too, filling the corner of the little restaurant with laughter, and-

Yeah, Saeko is done for.

The next Wednesday, Kiyoko stops by around noon to ask if Saeko wants to try a yakitori place she’d thought looked interesting the other day. Saeko doesn’t actually get customers in the shop that often - most of her income comes from preorders, for someone’s wedding or graduation party or funeral - so she doesn’t worry too much about flipping the sign in the door to CLOSED, or about scribbling a quick  _ out to lunch, back by one _ on a piece of scrap ribbon and taping it to the inside of the glass.

The Monday after that, they get karaage from a stand in the park and eat it on the grass next to the lake, Kiyoko’s hair gleaming glossy in the sunlight. And the next Tuesday they get ramen, and so on after, and after, and after as the sunny June weeks drift onwards.

* * *

Saeko goes to bed early these days - the shop opens early and closes before dinner, and after the first few months of miserable mornings, she’d been forced to admit that dragging herself out of bed at five o’clock is a lot easier when she’s gotten her full eight hours the night before. So it’s sheer luck that she hasn’t quite drifted off yet when her phone buzzes just before nine one hot night in early July.

She fumbles for it anyway - it might be -  _ yes- _

_ From: Kiyoko Shimizu, 8:56 P.M.  
_ _ Lunch tomorrow? _

It’s not like it’s anything new - it’d be more surprising at this point if Kiyoko  _ didn’t _ text her - but Saeko’s heart still jumps like she’s a goddamn high schooler again.

Unfortunately, even in high school, her wallet had never been fat. Saeko chews on her lower lip, running figures in her head - groceries, the next few deliveries of fresh flowers, gas, the number of days left before the end of the month - ah, shit, how can she say something like this to Kiyoko?

In the end, she decides to just go with the truth.

_ To: Kiyoko Shimizu, 9:01 P.M.  
_ _ I’d love to, but I’m actually feeling a little tight on funds. _ Not a lie. Saeko doesn’t need to clarify that she’s always feeling a little tight on funds.  _ Maybe Friday? _

The response is almost instant.

_ From: Kiyoko Shimizu, 9:02 P.M.  
_ _ Oh, thank God, me too. _

A startled giggle bursts from Saeko’s throat. They really are ridiculous. She’s about to text back as much when her phone buzzes again.

_ From Kiyoko Shimizu, 9:03 P.M.  
_ _ How about eating in? I’ll bring bentos. _

Saeko falls in love instantly.

* * *

Kiyoko shows up the next day at noon with two bentos and a smile, and Saeko could swear the flowers stand up a little taller when she walks in.

Or maybe that’s just Saeko. Or…

Whatever.

Anyway. Okay, it’s not that Saeko  _ can’t _ cook. What is “cooking”, anyway? Putting ingredients together? Anyone can do that.

It’s things like putting the  _ right _ ingredients together, and in the right quantities, and in the right order, and at the right temperature, for the right amount of time - things like that are the reason Saeko lives mostly out of her microwave and takes the batteries out of the smoke detector before she ever so much as  _ attempts _ anything more ambitious. So, really, Kiyoko could’ve been objectively the worst cook in Miyagi and Saeko probably still would’ve thought the bento was delicious.

But even so, Saeko is pretty sure Kiyoko’s bentos are a gift from God. Or something. She should probably stop comparing Kiyoko to an immortal so much.

It’s difficult, though, when Kiyoko is sitting in her shop next to the carnations, the violets, the roses that blend into her inked skin. As Saeko watches her eat and quietly talk, she thinks that Kiyoko has never looked as divine as she does on this little day.

But - no, those roses are human, for sure. Kiyoko brings the seasons, but unlike a goddess, she brings all of them. She’s summer wildflowers and seagrass and deep red roses. She’s autumn leaves and wheat and barley. She’s winter berries and moss. She’s springtime buds and youthfulness, cycling around anew.

That afternoon, Kiyoko lingers, later than she usually does. Around one, Saeko pauses the conversation to walk over to the door and flip the sign to CLOSED. “It’s Monday,” she explains over her shoulder. “We close early.”

“Oh? Us too,” says Kiyoko. She’s wearing a beanie today, and a few strands of hair have escaped to dangle around her face. It’s currently occupying at least fifty percent of Saeko’s mental capacities.

“No rush, then,” says Saeko.

The sunset is settling velvet purple and deep red over Miyagi by the time they leave. Kiyoko waits on the stoop as Saeko locks up, eyelashes impossibly long behind her glasses, and then falls into step next to her as they stroll down the road.

The gravel shifts under Saeko’s high heels and crunches under Kiyoko’s combat boots. Cicadas drone in the trees by the side of the road, faint shouts echo from two streets over where the pack of neighborhood kids are playing baseball in the empty lot, and Kiyoko’s fingers slip into the spaces between Saeko’s like the most natural thing in the world.

Kiyoko’s fingers are long and elegant, where Saeko’s are short and stubby and stained faintly green from the wedding bouquets she’d put together earlier that day. Saeko’s heels add a solid six centimeters to her height, but she’s still a few shorter than Kiyoko, and her creamsicle-orange sundress doesn’t match at all with Kiyoko’s skinny jeans, combat boots, and snug leather jacket.

Jeez, they must look ridiculous next to each other.

“This - this isn’t a problem, is it?” Saeko voices her sudden concern. Kiyoko tilts her head, questioning, and Saeko expands. “Like - I like you and all, but I don’t really - I don’t know anything about punk - like, the bands you listen to, I’ve never heard of most of them, I don’t go to many concerts that aren’t taiko drums, I don’t even have any tattoos-” Saeko glances up at Kiyoko, cuts herself off at the twinkle of mirth in her girlfriend’s eyes. “Is that silly?”

Kiyoko squeezes her hand. “Little bit.” Saeko feels quite foolish, but Kiyoko goes on. “There are some people who only date other punks, but that’s just a matter of convenience, because it’s easy to meet people at concerts. That’s not an issue here, because you’re right next door.”

“Oh.” That makes sense. “So - you don’t mind that I don’t come to concerts with you? Or have any ink?”

Kiyoko huffs a laugh, but her thumb’s rubbing reassuring circles into Saeko’s palm. “Of course I don’t. And if anyone ever says they do, they aren’t really punk.”

Saeko nods, feeling much better, and they fall into a comfortable silence for a moment. Kiyoko drops her hand as they pass the field where kiddie soccer practice is wrapping up - the prying eyes of coaches and parents might pose a danger - but as soon as they’re past, she picks it right back up again.

“You could get a tattoo if you wanted, though,” Kiyoko adds. Saeko’s eyes just about bulge out of her head.

_ “What!” _

Kiyoko looks a little surprised. “You’ve never considered it? Most people have, at least a little.”

“I’m considering it  _ now!” _ Saeko starts swinging their joined hands like she’s winding up to pitch a baseball, mind lighting up with possibilities. “I’d be so  _ cool!” _

Kiyoko’s mouth is twitching a little, which Saeko is beginning to recognize as meaning that she’s suppressing a smile. “You’re already cool, Saeko.”

“Well, yes,” Saeko agrees. “But I’d be cool _ er. _ Oh, man, what do you think I should  _ get?” _

They toss ideas back and forth for most of the walk home - Saeko thinks flowers are too cliche for a florist, Kiyoko flat-out refuses to give her anything with English swear words in it. They do agree that a first tattoo should be easily hidden,so Saeko decides on her back as the location.

They’re almost to Saeko’s house when Kiyoko brightens up. “Oh - what did you say your little brother’s name was?”

“Ryuunosuke - what, you think I should get his name?”

Kiyoko shakes her head, eyes alight with excitement. “No - what about. What about a dragon?”

Saeko’s delighted sharp intake of breath is all Kiyoko needs to hear. Kiyoko smiles down at her, steps springing a little bit. “What color?”

They discuss all the way to the end of Saeko’s driveway, where Saeko pauses, brow furrowing in confusion. “Wait, do you live in this area?”

Kiyoko shakes her head as they head up the gravel towards the house. “The turn for my place was a while back.”

“Oh - um, did you want to come in?” Saeko hesitates on the porch, unsure.

Kiyoko shakes her head a little, eyes crinkling with a smile at the corners. “I should get home before it gets too late, I just wanted to keep talking to you.”

Saeko beams. “Can’t complain about that.”

“Also, I forgot,” Kiyoko admits - but her subsequent giggle is too cute for Saeko to really be annoyed. “Hey, I can text you some sketches of tattoo designs tonight.”

“You’re going to draw it?”

“Unless you’re opposed.” Kiyoko pauses as Saeko calls out a greeting to her next-door neighbor as she pads out to get her mail. “It’ll cost a bit extra, but it’ll be much better quality than anything you’ll find on Google Images.”

“Sure, sounds great,” Saeko agrees. “Huh, I guess it’d be easier for you to tattoo something you drew yourself, too.”

Kiyoko hums. “A little bit, but most tattoo artists can copy just about anything. I was actually thinking you should book an appointment with my partner.”

_ She means business partner, _ Saeko reminds herself. Aloud, she says, “Is he better at this style?”

Kiyoko shakes her head. “We’re pretty similar in technique, except that I can do piercings, and he can do watercolor. But I don’t think I should give you your first tattoo.”

“Why’s that?” Saeko is growing concerned now - if it’s some worry about commitment-

“Because I make you nervous,” Kiyoko explains.

Then she’s hiding bubbly giggles behind her hand as Saeko turns about the color of Kiyoko’s inky roses. “Am I wrong?”

“N - oh, shut up.” Saeko groans and buries her face in her hands.

She’s interrupted by Kiyoko’s touch, gently prying her hands away - and then Kiyoko’s fingers beneath her chin, tilting Saeko’s face upwards to meet her own.

Saeko doesn’t draw back for a while. And even then, her hands linger on the curve of Kiyoko’s waist. The sun has almost completely set, and grey twilight curls around the stoop and the two of them.

“Did anyone see that?” Saeko murmurs, voice low and lazy even as she expresses concern.

“Nope,” Kiyoko replies, and kisses the tip of her nose. “I checked while you were blushing.”

“‘M  _ still _ blushing,” Saeko grumbles. But Kiyoko makes up for it with a second kiss, and then a third, and then another, and another.

When they separate - too soon, but Saeko can’t shake the fear that one of her neighbors might catch a glimpse - the dusk is fading rapidly. Sudden worry strikes her. “Are you sure it’s safe to walk home? You can stay over if you want.”

Kiyoko shakes her head. “Thank you, but it’s not far, and I’m pretty tough.” Saeko doesn’t doubt it - she’s seen the wiry strength of Kiyoko’s arms. “And my roommate will come after me if I’m missing for long.”

“I will too,” Saeko makes sure to tell her. “Guns blazing.” She flexes her bicep to demonstrate the guns in question.

“You and your guns really are a fearsome combination,” Kiyoko agrees. “I’ll text you when I get home safely, okay? About an appointment and a design, too.”

“Mm.” Saeko leans up for another kiss, and then Kiyoko is strolling off down the road, all dark clothes and pale skin and glossy black hair in the long shadows.

* * *

Saeko has taken note of the tattoo parlor in passing, especially over the past several weeks, but the first time she goes inside is the day of her appointment. She hesitates just inside the doorway, nostrils flaring to take in the faint scent of disinfectant.

The parlor is small, one room divided into sections by low screens. Each has a padded black table and a workstation, crowded with a few complicated-looking devices and an array of tiny bottles of ink; one station is meticulously neat, the other messy and cluttered. In the back, there’s a desk with one computer, a rickety swivel chair, and a calendar on the wall with appointment dates and times scribbled in in Sharpie. One side wall is entirely mirror, while the other is jumbled floor to ceiling with framed close-ups of tattoos - presumably Kiyoko and her partner’s previous work.

Kiyoko herself is busy at the messier workstation with another customer - a regular, judging by the easy conversation flowing between the artist and the tall, freckled girl as Kiyoko’s needle buzzes against her upper arm - but she pauses long enough to flash Saeko one of her rare smiles, and Saeko feels instantly more at ease as the person sitting at the desk unfolds himself from the chair and comes up to greet her.

Kiyoko’s co-artist is a long, lean beanpole of a man around her age, with lidded honey-golden eyes and a rat’s nest of wild black hair that sticks up in all directions and flops down over one eye. He’s dressed in jeans and a safety-pinned black t-shirt for some band Saeko vaguely recognizes, he wears a perpetual half-smirk, and his name is Kuroo Tetsurou.

Saeko examines his tattoos with fascination. Up his left arm, there’s prowling a black panther, lithe and powerful, with a gleam in its eyes that bears a distinct resemblance to the person wearing it. The sleeve disappears into his shirt, but out of the neckline, the tattoo has faded into a black-and-grey night sky with silhouettes of trees and galaxies along his throat that shift when he talks. And on his right arm, there’s a beautiful watercolor rainbow that dissolves into scattered splashes of color along the back of his hand.

Kuroo bows to Saeko, offers her a snack or a drink or the use of their now-repaired bathroom (she accepts a drink of water and turns down the bathroom and rice crackers), and then leaves her with a pen and a clipboard full of paperwork to fill out before they got started. Once she’s done, she passes it back to him and shifts around her shoulders a little, making sure that her tank top doesn’t cover any of the skin to be inked. Kuroo sits down first, in the rolly chair next to the neater workstation, and waves with a sweeping gesture at the padded table. “Whenever you’re ready.”

"I think I like you better when you're sitting down,” she decides. At five foot one, Saeko is deeply suspicious of anyone more than six inches taller than her - Kuroo is more than double that.

“But we’re still roughly the same height this way,” Kuroo points out. Saeko swats him as she carefully lies down on her stomach. “Alright, I’m tracing the pattern with a marker right now - you okay?” he adds, as Saeko shivers slightly under the cold touch of the Sharpie.

“It’s a little cold.”

“Okay, hold still for a bit, these lines are pretty fine.” He presses one hand to her skin to mark his place, warm and reassuring, and Saeko relaxes - there’s none of the creeping, suspicious chill that she usually feels when men touch her. Despite his scruffy appearance, Kuroo is trustworthy.

_ Wild outside, but not inside, _ she thinks to herself, with some amusement. Not that she can particularly sympathize - Saeko herself is wild through and through.

“This is a pretty neat design,” Kuroo observes as he draws. “Is it for World of Warcraft or something?”

Saeko doesn’t miss the teasing tone in his voice. She points at him as best as she can  without actually moving her shoulders. “Just be grateful I’m not asking for a naked elf woman on my ass.”

She tenses up at the first touch of the needle, but the buzz of the tattoo gun isn’t any worse than uncomfortable against her back. Lying down like this, Saeko actually finds herself dozing off.

Until Kuroo starts shading in the skin directly over her vertebrae, and Saeko lets out an involuntary hiss at the white-hot pain.

Kuroo’s needle stills, and she grunts out, “Keep going.” He does, but she can feel that he’s observing her more carefully now.

She’d chew him out for it if she weren’t laboriously biting back gasps of pain.  _ Christ, _ but it hurts-

The needle buzzes against a jut at the very base of her neck, and her entire upper body tenses up.

Then the needle is gone, and Kuroo says, “You know, we can take a break if you need.”

Saeko’s jaw sets hard. “No, I can make it through.” Let her be damned if she’ll back out now.

But when Kuroo responds, his lowered voice has taken on a note of real concern. “The thing is, though - don’t look, but I think Kiyoko’s a little worried. She’d never say it, but - she’s been looking over here more and more since you started making those noises.”

“Oh.” Well, shit. Saeko can’t turn her head in this position, but she believes it - there’s no way Kiyoko would ever question Saeko’s courage aloud, but she might be worried. “Well… I guess a ten minute break wouldn’t hurt.”

“Sure thing.” Kuroo pats down her shoulders again, then leaves to dispose of the paper towel. It isn’t until he returns that Saeko realized she’s been played.

She narrows her eyes up at him from the table. “You’re a clever one.”

“Guilty,” Kuroo agrees with a shit-eating grin. “But hey, at least I’m using my powers for good.”

Saeko grumbles indistinctly at him in response, and then sits up, stretches out a little - she hadn’t realized how stiff she had become after tensing up.

“Do you want to see?” Kuroo asks, dropping back down into his swivel chair.

“Uh, sure.”

Kuroo rolls over to the workstation, unhooks a handheld mirror from the side, and hands it to her. Saeko shifts around on the table, tilting the mirror in her hands to reflect the mirror on the wall so that she can examine the half-finished tattoo. The angle is a little strange, but as far as she can tell, the lines are identical to Kiyoko’s design. And he’s doing something pretty with the colors - red reflecting off the gold, shades of gold gleaming in the red.

“You better not be skimping on the details for my sake,” she warns Kuroo.

Kuroo snorts. “As  _ if. _ You ready to start up again?”

Saeko lowers herself back down to the table, hiding a wince - the pain in her vertebrae is much sharper now that she’s aware of it. “Is it gonna be sore for a while after this?”

“It shouldn’t hurt any more than a bad sunburn.” Kuroo pats her shoulder with his free hand. “You might not be able to lean back onto anything for a few days, but that’s it.”

Saeko finds a bar connecting two legs of the table below her, and grips onto that for the rest of the process, fingers whitening when the needle moves over bone. Kuroo, wisely, doesn’t say anything about it.

The buzzing of the needle stops for good sooner than she’d expected. Kuroo puts the gun down on the workstation, links his fingers together and stretches his arms out to crack his knuckles. “All done.”

“Really?” Saeko sits up again, shrugs her shoulders a little. Kuroo was right about the pain - now that the needle’s gone, her skin doesn’t feel any worse than as if she’d dozed off on the beach on a hot day without sunscreen.

“Unless I’m missing something.” Kuroo passes her the mirror again, and Saeko holds it up to carefully examine her back.

The skin of her shoulders is a little red and raw around the fresh ink, but the design is clear: one dragon, petite and golden, curled protectively around another, gleaming burnished red. And in both of their faces, Saeko can recognize the dramatically slanted eyes that the Tanaka family shares.

“Good?” Kuroo asks.

He’s hiding it pretty well, but Saeko still catches the note of unmistakable pride in his voice. She hands the mirror back and grins at him.

_ “Perfect.” _

The other customer has left, and Kiyoko floats over towards them, drying her hands on a paper towel. “It looks great, Saeko.”

“It does,” Saeko agrees. She’s turned away to show the tattoo, so she hears but doesn’t see the two artists’ quiet high-five.

The sun’s beginning to drop down in the sky. As Kuroo bandages up the new tattoo, leads Saeko back to the battered cash register to pay, and explains when to take the bandages off and put the lotion on and that she can under no circumstances go swimming for the next two weeks, Kiyoko gathers her things with the unmistakable alacrity of someone about to leave work for the day. She pauses next to Saeko, waiting for Kuroo to finish.

“On your way out?” Saeko asks her, once Kuroo has repeated everything twice over and pressed a sheet with all the same information on it into her hands.

“Mmhmm, we’re both done for the day.”

“Come over,” Saeko suggests, thinking about how Kiyoko would fit amongst her potted succulents and battered old furniture, all dark and glossy and graceful.

But Kiyoko shakes her head. “We’re going to a concert tonight, actually.”

“Hmm? Who?”

Saeko doesn’t recognize the name of the band. She wishes them a good and safe time anyway.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she adds to Kiyoko.

“If I see any flowers, I won’t leave a single one unpicked,” Kiyoko agrees dutifully, eyes twinkling.

“You’ve got it.” Saeko stands up on her tiptoes to kiss Kiyoko goodbye, ignoring Kuroo’s loud eyeroll in the background.

LATER THAT VERY SAME BEE

“Heeeeey, HEY, HEY!”

It takes Kuroo a moment to realize that the noisy greeting is directed at him. He looks up, only to be greeted by a blinding smile.

The man is a little shorter than Kuroo, but he’s much broader, his shoulders and arms sinewy with muscle. His sleeves would clearly be straining against his deltoids if they hadn’t been cut away (or maybe flexed away) already, leaving only fraying hems at the armholes of the t-shirt. And his hair is a disaster - a splotchy silver dye job, that somehow, impossibly, suits him.

Kuroo cocks an eyebrow at the man. “Can I help you?”

Kuroo and Kiyoko are the fourth and fifth people in line outside the venue. Silver hair is the sixth, closely followed by a seventh buried in his phone a few steps back - a man with chocolate-brown eyes, perfectly coiffed brown hair, and the face of an angel, if an angel were wearing retina-searing neon skinny jeans and some shitty knockoff galaxy-print Doc Martens. Late afternoon is still fading and it’ll be a solid hour before the venue even opens, but the queue is already growing - a pair of girls stroll up arm in arm to take places eight and nine.

“I love your hair!” says Muscles. It’s a dubious compliment, all things considered.

“Thanks,” Kuroo says, which seems safe. “I… Like yours too. I think.”

Kiyoko and Kuroo don’t often get to shows early enough to wait in line. But this is one of Kiyoko’s new favorite bands, some raw indie talent right on the edge of their big break, and since she’d been excited enough to ask Kuroo if they could come ahead of time, he couldn’t help but oblige.

He hadn’t expected to be befriended, though.

Muscles perks up. “Really? Do you think it’s cool?”

“To be honest, you look like you stuck your finger in an electrical socket,” Kuroo confesses. “But it works for you.”

“Thanks!” Muscles beams at him. “I leave it down sometimes, but I always spike it for shows ‘cause it gets in my eyes otherwise. What gel do you use?”

“Uh-” Kuroo ducks his head. “I don’t, actually. It just sticks like this from my bedhead in the mornings.”

_“_ Really?! That’s _so cool!”_

At the sound of his exclamation, his pretty companion looks up from his phone. He comes up behind Muscles, rests his chin on his shoulder, and loops his arms around his waist. It’d seem like a possessive gesture, if his eyes weren’t roving open and curious up and down Kuroo’s lean frame. “Where’d you find this one, babe?” he says into Muscles’ ear.

“In line! Do you like him? I like him.”

“Mm, I think I do.”

Kiyoko, who has bent down to pick a flower growing next to the sidewalk, cuts her eyes towards Kuroo - they’ve been each other’s beards often enough that he recognizes the tacit offer. Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head.

He likes these guys, too.

They talk about this band and other bands and bands that were popular when all of them were teenagers and bands that were popular long before any of them were born, and he likes them more. Muscles is loud and energetic, with a big voice and big gestures and hints of a big heart in his crinkly laugh lines. The pretty one isn’t as noisy, but his eyes are sharp and his tongue is sharper, and the first time he catches Kuroo off-guard, his eyes glint like self-satisfied steel.

Kuroo doesn’t often warm up to new people quickly, but these guys are fun. Between the one’s overdramatic gestures and the other’s dry wisecracks, Kuroo can’t stop himself from laughing, even when it reveals the horrible snorty donkey-laugh that Kiyoko’s been teasing him about for a solid decade. (The two of them just laugh harder at him.)

It’s only once they’ve filed inside, when the air is starting to crackle live with anticipation where it winds between the growing sea of bodies before the stage and the pair has split off towards the ramshackle setup that could pass for a bar, that Kuroo realizes he never actually learned their names. Mostly because they referred to each other exclusively as “babe.” Since Kiyoko isn’t much for talking around strangers, he doubts they know his either.

Ah, no matter. That isn’t what Kuroo’s here for.

He glances around the place - he’s been here dozens of times before, but never for this group. The light setup doesn’t look like much, the amps are so old and battered they might qualify as antiques, the sun is dropping fast below the horizon like a cold silver nickel, and the venue is filling up like a bathtub - slow, steady, piling on top of itself with a growing swell of buzzing words. This is how Kuroo likes it.

It’s a full hour later that the band bursts out onto the stage. The crowd surges forward, pressing tighter and closer. Kuroo and Kiyoko are swept up with them, and when Kuroo glances over, he can see a gleam in her eyes behind her glasses.

The frontman, some lean guy in his early twenties with a bleach-blonde undercut and weird sleeves that appear to be a psychedelic version of Alice in Wonderland, hollers insults at the crowd and demands  _ do you want to hear some fucking music _ as the bassist starts up with an unmistakably seductive bassline. The crowd roars back at him, roils like a storm ready to strike. They fucking love it - the abuse he hurls at them, the deranged grin of the Cheshire Cat on his forearm, the drums and the bass winding around each other hot and heavy - and he knows it, he knows it.

The frontman grins wicked down at them. He yanks the mic stand close like he’s going to slam it down onto a bed, rasps rough words into it instead that scrape harsh and raw up Kuroo’s spine.

This is how Kuroo likes it.

The show weaves itself with warped bass and wefted drums and tight-packed bodies spun into yarn, a rhythm that thrums in Kuroo’s skin and pounds against his heart in his ribcage. Sometimes at concerts, he and Kiyoko dance together, with her back flush against his chest and his hands on her hips because they know without a doubt that all eyes will be on them. But tonight, they range out, throwing their bodies against those of the strangers in the pit instead.

The pair from the parking lot is never far - Kuroo catches them in the corners of his eyes, unmistakable silver hair, unmistakable neon skinny jeans. Sometimes they’re moving back and forth from the bar together, sometimes they’re hurling themselves into the pit. At one point, they’re shouldering up next to Kuroo, and one flashes him a smirk, the other a wide grin. At another, they’re up next to him in the very core of the whirling mass, and Kuroo slams himself against the rippling power of one’s muscle mass, the other’s lean strength. And the band screams their way through their setlist, doesn’t wait too long before coming back out for an encore - for all his brash insults, the frontman doesn’t want to leave either.

This is how Kuroo likes it.

After shows, he and Kiyoko always linger outside the venue, letting the adrenaline and noise fade from their bodies. The two guys find them there - they’re clearly riding the post-concert high, but judging by the too-big smile on muscles’ face and the pretty one’s too-careful steps, they’re more than a little drunk, too. The pretty one’s chocolate hair is wildly mussed from the sweat and energy of the pit. That’s the nice thing about Kuroo’s own disaster of a hairstyle - it never gets any worse than it already was.

“Dude!” says muscles, which is kind of a strange way to address someone you’ve been off-and-on flirting with all night, but Kuroo’s been mentally referring to him as Muscles for a few hours, so he supposes he can’t really talk. “You didn’t tell us you had sleeves!”

Oh - now that he’s thinking about it, Kuroo hadn’t taken his leather jacket off until after they’d split up inside the venue. He glances down at the panther on his right arm, raises it to rub the dusky sky on the back of his neck. “Oh - yeah, I do.”

“They’re so  _ cool!” _ says Muscles. “Can I look?”

“Uh, sure.” Kuroo extends his right arm towards the other man, who gently grasps his wrist and turns his hand palm-upwards, smoothing his thumbs over the watercolor rainbow.

Next to Kuroo, Kiyoko flicks the ash off the end of her cigarette and takes another deep drag. Kiyoko doesn’t smoke much, but when she does, it’s always like this: on the cracked pavement outside the venue, when the streetlights are fluorescent orange over the parking lot and the last trickle of the crowd is wandering out into their cars and the two of them are still heady and half-floating on fading echoes.

“I’m Bokuto, by the way!” he says. “And this is Oikawa.” He jerks his chin back at the pretty guy.

“Kuroo. Nice to meet you.” Kuroo watches Bokuto’s wondering face with no shortage of amusement, but he still can’t suppress the goosebumps that race down his spine at Bokuto’s calloused fingers smoothing up the inside of his forearm.

_ “Hey.” _ Oikawa nudges Bokuto aside, looking highly affronted at being left out. “Me too.”

Kuroo smirks at him. “You’ve always gotta be the center of attention, huh?”

_ “Yes.” _

“Pfff. Fine, then.” Kuroo lets Oikawa take his other arm. His fingers move lighter and faster than Bokuto’s, and Kuroo can’t help but notice how long his lashes are over his downcast eyes, and his unconscious grace and poise even as he's standing still, and-

And the  _ knowing look _ Kiyoko is giving him out of the side of her eye-

“They're so  _ cool,” _ Bokuto murmurs, successfully derailing Kuroo’s train of thought.

“My co-artist here did that one,” he says, jerking his head in Kiyoko’s direction to hopefully distract her. It won't work, of course, but he has to at least make the token effort.

“Co-artist?” Bokuto stares from Kuroo to Kiyoko. “You're an  _ artist?” _

Oikawa is a little quicker to figure it out. He lets go of Kuroo’s arm with one hand to point a victorious finger at him. “You're a tattoo artist!”

“Bingo,” Kuroo drawls. He gently tugs his arms out of the two pairs of hands, shoves them with effort into the tight pockets of his skinny jeans.

_ “Really?” _

“Yup.”

“Really, really?”

“Really, really.”

“Like, you put  _ tattoos _ on people with a  _ needle?” _

“No, I use Crayola markers,” Kuroo explains.

Bokuto puffs himself up like an irritated pigeon. “That's  _ much _ less cool!”

Oikawa leans into Bokuto’s ear and says at a normal volume, “Bokuto, he’s being sarcastic.”

“Oh.” Bokuto de-fluffs.

“Sorry, he's rather drunk,” Oikawa adds to Kuroo, then cries out an indignant squawk as Kuroo flicks his nose.

“Like you're not. You're just better at hiding it.”

Oikawa is rendered momentarily speechless by outrage, which gives Bokuto the perfect opportunity to cut in: “Hey, hey, Kuroo, can we see your… your place? The place where you, where you do the-”

“My tattoo parlor,” Kuroo supplies, one corner of his mouth crooking up in a smile.

Bokuto points at him like a goddamn game show host. “Yes! That place! Can we see it?”

Oh, hell, Kuroo has never in his life been able to resist anything cute.

Kiyoko is shifting over, ready to intervene on his behalf. Kuroo answers hastily before she can. “Yeah, sure. You guys want to come see it now?” Bokuto whoops with delight at the prospect. “If it's okay with you, that is,” Kuroo adds to Kiyoko.

She nods, and Bokuto falls into step next to her as they set off through the parking lot towards Kiyoko and Kuroo’s car. “You're pretty quiet, huh?” he asks.

“Sometimes,” she answers, and Bokuto’s eyes go about the size of flying saucers.

_ “Whoa! _ Your voice is so pretty! You are so pretty. Oh - I don't mean that in a straight way. I am not straight. I just mean that you’re beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Kiyoko tells him, quiet as ever. But Kuroo knows her well enough to catch the edge of amusement in her voice.

_ Ha. _ It's not just him who finds these guys endearing.

“She  _ knows _ she's pretty, you oversized muscle-brain,” Oikawa scolds him. Kiyoko moves up to walk next to Kuroo as Bokuto expresses noisy happiness behind them and Oikawa tries and utterly fails to keep the affection out of his tone as he chides his boyfriend.

“Are you sure about this?” Kiyoko murmurs to him. “You've only known them for a few hours.”

Kuroo sticks his hands in his pockets again, glances down at his best friend. “See, the thing is - those two were either planning to drive like this, or to walk home through Sendai at midnight, which is worse.” Sendai isn't Tokyo, but it's still urban enough that Kuroo wouldn't walk this late, even sober. Plus, the strange pair seems wholly harmless, but on the off chance that Kuroo isn't as good a judge of character as he thought, he's tall and strong enough that he trusts himself to hold his own if need be.

Especially with Kiyoko around. The two of them have thrown punches side by side in enough bar fights that he feels a hell of a lot safer with her next to him.

They’re almost to the car by the time she mutters, so quietly he barely hears it:

“They’re not even  _ blondes.” _

“Let me  _ live.” _

Kuroo tosses her the keys, then bundles Bokuto and Oikawa into the backseat of the battered old Honda Civic as Kiyoko slides into the passenger’s side and leans over to start the car. Oikawa, snickering like a menace, clings to Kuroo’s arm and attempts to drag him into the car after them.

“Desist, you gremlin,” Kuroo requests.

“Bokuto!” Oikawa shouts, as though his boyfriend’s a goddamn Pokemon or something. Bokuto looks up, then lunges over and yanks Kuroo the rest of the way down into Oikawa’s lap. Kuroo lets out a startled shriek, and Oikawa and Bokuto start giggling wickedly.

“I have to drive, you know,” Kuroo points out. His voice is muffled where he’s lying facedown on Oikawa’s stomach, half-in and half-out of the car.

“No, you don’t,” Oikawa informs him.

Oikawa’s hand smoothing through his hair does feel pretty nice, but Kuroo pries himself away after a few minutes, when he can’t ignore Kiyoko’s pointed stare from the front seat on the back of his head anymore. They pull out of the lot, tires crunching on the fragmented pavement. The drive home winds a complicated path through Sendai and back to Torono, but Kuroo knows it practically by heart at this point. He’s used to this.

In the backseat, Bokuto and Oikawa have cuddled up close to each other as best as they can without taking off their seatbelts, one rambling on about his favorite kind of bees or something, the other laughing with him or at him or both. Oikawa breaks away for a moment to ask, “Kuroo, do you mind if we…?”. He waves a shiny object so Kuroo can see it in the rearview mirror - a flask.

Oh, to hell with it, they’re already drunk. “Just don’t get sloppy, kay?”

He’s a little reluctant to reveal his and Kiyoko’s home address, so instead of going straight to their apartment, he drops her off at the McDonald’s two minutes away and waits for her text that she’s safely home before he leaves for the tattoo parlor. They pull into the parking lot of the strip mall, and Kuroo parks out front. The streetlights are still on, but the place is eerily deserted, the windows of Saeko’s flower shop dark. When Kuroo unlocks the door of the place and flicks the lights on, he’s momentarily disoriented by the familiar layout - he feels as though he’s walking around an empty high school late at night. The clock on the wall tells him it’s almost midnight.

Oikawa attempts to enter first, but Kuroo sticks an arm out in front of his chest to block him. “Hey, put that away first.” He nods at the flask still in Oikawa’s hand. “No alcohol in the shop.”

Oikawa takes the opportunity to wrap his free arm around Kuroo’s right sleeve and lean into the watercolor splashes on his shoulder - but he  _ does _ put the flask away, so Kuroo counts it as a success and lets the pair of them in.

Bokuto wanders up to Kiyoko’s workstation and stares down at her array of tools. Oikawa hangs further back, eyes roving around the entire room. “Is that one yours?” he asks Kuroo, pointing at the messier station with the hand that isn’t still attached to Kuroo’s arm.

“That’s  _ Kiyoko’s.” _

“Really?” Bokuto asks, squinting back at him. “She seems like she’d be the neat one.”

Kuroo rolls his eyes. It’s a common misconception. “Trust me, I live with her. She’s not the neat one. Also, break those ink bottles and I’ll murder you.” Bokuto jerks his hand back from the row of bottles, looking guilty as a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “But feel free to look,” Kuroo adds, feeling magnanimous.

Oikawa lets go of Kuroo and goes to fit himself into Bokuto’s side instead as they examine Kiyoko’s tattoo gun. Kuroo, with his hands shoved in his pockets, follows a few steps behind, then leans on one of the dividers - wait, shit, it’s not strong enough for his weight - he staggers and regains his footing, just barely catching the thing before it topples.

It might seem sappy, but Kuroo’s a craftsman at heart. It’s hard for him to deny someone interested in his work.

“We should get tattoos!” Oikawa says to Bokuto. “Of… Of each other. To show our love.”

Bokuto yells a little in excitement. “Yeah! Of each other’s faces! On… On our faces.” He turns to touch the face in question, skimming his fingers over Oikawa’s pretty features and cupping his chin. “Like… Right here.”

Oikawa huffs around Bokuto’s hand. “That would  _ hurt, _ babe. We should do something smaller. Like, we could get each other’s names. On… Our favorite parts of each other.”

Kuroo snorts to himself. It’s their mistake to make, yeah, but he’s seen plenty of people get a boyfriend’s or girlfriend’s name inked onto their body, and not once has it gone well.

Bokuto’s forehead scrunches up as he considers this. “But, Tooru…Your heart is all the way inside of you. I don’t think a tattoo needle could reach…”

Oikawa catches hold of Bokuto’s hand and squeezes it. “I can get it on my chest, silly. No problem.”

“Oh!” Bokuto brightens back up and plants a kiss on the top of Oikawa’s fluffy head. “Where would I get your name, then?”

“On your arm,  _ duh.” _ Oikawa winds himself around the limb in question, nuzzling his cheek against Bokuto’s bare deltoid.

“Yes! Kuroo can do it! You will, won’t you?” Bokuto turns his puppy-dog eyes back towards the artist, reaches over with the arm Oikawa’s not hanging off of to take Kuroo’s hand and interlace their fingers.

Kuroo shakes his head instantly. “Sorry, no. I can’t give tattoos to people who are drunk.”

Oikawa lets go of Bokuto and draws himself up, eyes flashing fiery. “Do you think our decision-making capacities are  _ impaired _ or something?”

That’s exactly it, but Kuroo has a strong hunch that Oikawa won’t listen to him if he says as much - so instead, he tells him the other reason: “Your blood is thinned by the alcohol. You’ll bleed way too much if I give you a tattoo now.”

“We can handle blood,” Bokuto declares. He looks delighted at the prospect, which is kind of concerning.

“Maybe  _ you _ can, but I’m very squeamish,” Kuroo lies smoothly. “I’d probably have nightmares. I might even throw up.”

Bokuto droops like a wilted flower, and Oikawa hurries to console him. “Don’t worry, babe,” he tells Bokuto, reaching up to ruffle his hair and instead accidentally poking him in the eye. “We can call a taxi back into Sendai or something. I saw a 24-hour tattoo parlor near the venue - I think it was called Retribution or something…”

Well,  _ shit. _ Kuroo doesn’t know the Sendai tattoo scene by heart, but the name Retribution rings a bell, and he doesn’t doubt that Bokuto and Oikawa could find  _ someone _ to do the deed - some artist who doesn’t care about the thin blood or how much either of them might regret their choices the next morning.

“No need to spend the money on a taxi fare,” he cuts in. Two pairs of eyes flick back towards him - Bokuto’s are hazier, but Oikawa’s reaction time is just delayed enough that Kuroo is certain he’s more drunk than he seems. “You guys can stay here for the night, and I can give you your tattoos tomorrow, when you’ve sobered up.”

Not that he has any intent of giving them the tattoos then either, but hopefully, at that point, the pair won’t want them anymore.

Oikawa considers this, looking as though he’s rolling a marble around in his mouth. Finally, he says, “I don’t want to sleep on the floor.”

“No worries,” Kuroo assures him. “We have a fold-out couch and some blankets in the back room.” They’re mostly there for rainy days, when Kuroo is somehow unable to keep his eyes open without a catnap during the lunch hour, but - yes, the fold-out will fit two.

Oikawa narrows his eyes at Kuroo, scrutinizing him for any insincerity. Kuroo meets his stare steadily - but even drunk, this guy’s gaze is piercing. Bokuto is less intimidating, half-leaning on Oikawa, having plopped his head on his shoulder so that he can gaze up at his boyfriend with utter adoration.

Finally, Oikawa nods reluctantly, apparently unable to find any trace of dishonesty in Kuroo’s face. “I guess… What difference will twelve hours make?”

_ Hopefully a modicum of sanity, _ Kuroo thinks dryly.

Bokuto nods several times, looping his arm with Oikawa’s and planting a kiss on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, babe. Nobody would be here to see it besides Kuroo anyway. And Kuroo already knows we love each other - you know, don’t you, Kuroo?”

Kuroo attempts to look serious. It’s somewhat ruined by the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I do indeed know.”

“It’s very important,” Oikawa explains. “For people to know. That we love each other. Very, very…” He trails off, looking as if he’s going to elaborate, but the mental effort is clearly too much, and after a moment, he just finishes, “…important.”

Kuroo pats his shoulder. “I got you covered, don’t worry.”

He leads them through the door to the back room. Besides the couch, there’s a microwave, a minifridge, a bulky TV that’s probably at least twenty years old, and a tiny cabinet where Kuroo and Kiyoko keep their snacks. He directs Bokuto to fold out the couch and start helping him with the sheets.

He also makes the mistake of taking his eyes off Oikawa for more than two seconds. Suddenly, the TV lights up with a grainy cartoon picture, and its ancient speakers grind out the sounds of some Ghibli soundtrack. Over his shoulder, Oikawa says, “Kou-chan, your favorite movie is on!”

Bokuto glances up at the TV and lets out a muted yell of excitement. He releases the fitted sheet just as he was about to wrap it around one corner of the futon, so he can stand up and announce, “Kiki!”

The elastic of the fitted sheet snaps the whole thing back towards Kuroo, yanking itself off the entire futon. He curses hard under his breath, and Bokuto pauses and looks towards him, eyes bright with excitement and curiosity. “Kuroo, are you okay?”

Kuroo sighs. “I’m fine.”

The movie is already more than half over, but that doesn’t seem to make a difference to Bokuto, who mouths along to every single line and shouts his favorite ones out loud at random as they put the fitted sheet back onto the futon. By the time they’ve finished setting it up, Bokuto and Oikawa have mostly sobered up, intoxication slowly giving way to the quiet, sleepy post-concert lull Kuroo knows well. Oikawa flops down on the futon the second it’s ready. Bokuto follows quickly, and they snuggle up into each other. Oikawa pillows his head on Bokuto’s barrel of a chest, and Bokuto wraps one arm around Oikawa’s shoulders to tug him in closer. Oikawa makes a noise of delight and plants a kiss on Bokuto’s chest.

Onscreen, Jiji catches sight of a pretty white cat and picks his way down the top of the wall towards her. Meanwhile, Kuroo wanders around the room, finding his keys, his wallet - wait, shit, where’s his phone? Oh, he left it on the minifridge-

“Going somewhere?” Oikawa asks through a massive yawn.

“Uh - home? I sleep too, you know.”

They’re both quiet as Kuroo slips on his shoes and clicks out the light, plunging the room into darkness. Well, it’s not as if he could-

“Kuroo,” says Oikawa suddenly. “Stay. With us.”

Kuroo stops halfway through the doorway.

He glances back at the pair of them, illuminated by the light of the TV. Oikawa flashes him an encouraging smile, and Bokuto thumps the space next to him with enough enthusiasm that Kuroo is struck by brief concern for the strength of the fold-out’s hinges.

This is  _ definitely _ not professional.

But… Oikawa and Bokuto are already basically welded together, intertwined so tightly that they’re only really taking up half the space anyway… And hell, it might be  _ dangerous _ to leave these two alone in his shop, they could steal something or, god forbid, attempt to tattoo  _ themselves _ … Not to mention that Kuroo can’t seem to stop himself from noticing Bokuto’s pecs, or how soft Oikawa’s fluffy hair looks…

…Eh, maybe the fold-out will fit three.

Kuroo clicks off the TV, kicks off his shoes, and lifts up the side of the blanket to scoot in on Bokuto’s other side. He’s got no intention of getting physical, but Bokuto instantly throws his other arm around Kuroo and pulls him snug against himself. Kuroo half-laughs in surprise. “You’re a cuddly one, huh?”

“Hell yeah!” Bokuto and Oikawa answer in unison.

Pff. Well, it’s not like Kuroo isn’t. Besides, Bokuto is far more warm and comfortable than his bed at home would’ve been.

On Bokuto’s other side, Oikawa stretches his arms over his head with an obviously fake yawn, and a moment later, his hand is draped over Kuroo’s narrow waist, tugging him a little closer.

“You’re shameless,” Kuroo tells him.

“I really am,” Oikawa agrees.

Kuroo snorts.  _ “Goodnight, _ you two troublemakers.”

“Goodnight, Kuroo,” Oikawa chirps at him, and then adds to Bokuto, “Goodnight, Kou-chan.”

“G’night, crunchwrap supreme!”

_ “Darling,” _ Oikawa croons.

“Sweet mesquite,” Bokuto tosses back through a yawn.

_ Weird fuckin nicknames, _ Kuroo observes, not without amusement. Aloud, he says, “Yo, pipe down. It’s about time for you two to hit the sleepy drunk phase.”

“Oh!” says Bokuto. “You’re right!”

He nuzzles into Kuroo’s wild hair. Within a minute, his breathing is steady and even. On Bokuto’s other side, Oikawa is soon unconscious too.

It’s like that, cuddled close against Bokuto, with Oikawa’s hand resting on his hip like they’re a sprawling pile of kittens, that Kuroo yawns, drifts, and finally sleeps.

* * *

Around eight the next morning, when Saeko knows Kiyoko usually comes in to work, her phone buzzes with a message - an incoming photo.

Saeko sorts out the latest delivery of flowers  - mostly white ones, since it’s the tail end of wedding season and the average bride is shockingly uncreative in her flower choice - while she waits for the image to load. Once a second buzz signifies that the download ready, she taps it open, then drops someone’s precious bridal bouquet to laugh aloud at the contents.

_ From: Kiyoko Shimizu, 8:03 A.M.  
_ _ Kuroo brought home some strays. _

The picture is of a futon - in some back room of the parlor, judging by the posters of tattoos pasted over the walls and the nearby minifridge. Snuggled up under the sheets is Kuroo - along with no fewer than two other guys. Thankfully, they’re all fully clothed. But still, there’s something incredibly satisfying to Saeko about seeing Kuroo, who is irritatingly tall and quick-witted, dwarfed next to the breadth of the other two and drooling all over the one in the middle’s broad chest.

_ to: Kiyoko Shimizu, 8:06 A.M.  
_ _ hahaha _

_ To: Kiyoko Shimizu, 8:06 A.M.  
_ _ from the concert? _

_ From: Kiyoko Shimizu, 8:08 A.M.  
_ _ We met them in line beforehand. _

_ From: Kiyoko Shimizu, 8:15 A.M.  
_ _ I woke Kuroo up, he has appointments today. He says they were drunk and wanted tattoos of each others’ names. _

_ To: Kiyoko Shimizu, 8:16 A.M.  
_ _ DID HE DO IT _

_ From: Kiyoko Shimizu, 8:17 A.M.  
_ _ Of course not. He set them up with a Ghibli movie and a place to stay overnight in case they tried to wander off somewhere else to get the tattoos there instead. _

_ To: Kiyoko Shimizu, 8:19 A.M.  
_ _ he’s such a good guy omg _

_ To: Kiyoko Shimizu, 8:20 A.M.  
_ _ that doesn’t explain why he’s in bed with them though? I know he wouldn’t have sex with drunk people _

_ From: Kiyoko Shimizu, 8:22 A.M.  
_ _ I’m curious too. I’ll keep you posted. _

_ From: Kiyoko Shimizu, 9:15 A.M.  
_ _ They’re awake. They’re hungover. They’re still flirting with Kuroo. _

_ From: Kiyoko Shimizu, 9:23 A.M.  
_ _ Their names are Bokuto and Oikawa. You should probably know. I think they’re going to be around for a while. _

_ To: Kiyoko Shimizu, 9:25 A.M.  
_ _ BUT WHY WAS HE IN BED WITH THEM _

_ From: Kiyoko Shimizu, 9:27 A.M.  
_ _ They wanted to cuddle, apparently. All three of them. _

_ To: Kiyoko Shimizu, 9:28 A.M.  
_ _ kuroo isnt quite as cool as he seems huh _

_ From: Kiyoko Shimizu, 9:29 A.M.  
_ _ You haven’t heard his laugh yet, have you. _

_ From: Kiyoko Shimizu, 9:47 A.M.  
_ _ He went out to breakfast with them. He’s texting me updates. _

_ From: Kiyoko Shimizu, 9:59 A.M.  
_ _ Apparently they’ve completely forgotten that they wanted tattoos. _

_ From: Kiyoko Shimizu, 10:00 A.M.  
_ _ He’s not telling them. _

_ To: Kiyoko Shimizu, 10:01 A.M.  
_ _ hahahahahaha _

Saeko’s tattoo hurts something powerful on the first day, a little less on the next, and even less on the day after that. On the fourth day, she has to concentrate desperately on putting together sixty identical tiny bouquets of posies to avoid picking at the skin where it’s peeling. And by the time a week has passed, all the redness and most of the pain is gone.

Kiyoko eats lunch in Saeko’s shop just about every day now, as the summer weeks stretch on. And Saeko can’t help but notice that even though Kiyoko isn’t particularly noisy or bright, the shop is starting to be far too quiet and dim in the long afternoons after she leaves. The flowers are always droopier when Saeko’s the only one there, and the colors never seem to cooperate when she’s trying to put a bouquet together. She buys a radio to counter the silence and attempts to listen to the alt rock Kiyoko favors; it lasts all of two days before she gives up. Kiyoko confesses over her bento, the first time Saeko leaves the radio playing her favorite bubblegum pop station through a faint layer of static, that she’s never heard any of it before in her life - but when Kuroo comes along and happens to catch the tail end of some Ke$ha, he knows every word.

Kuroo is always invited. Kiyoko had been right when she’d said that she and Kuroo are similar; he fits amongst the flora in the same way that she does, dark and lithe but with a smile that brightens the whole place. He doesn’t always come by, but when he does, Bokuto and Oikawa show up in the conversation more and more frequently - and Kuroo’s smiles do, too. Saeko is only capable of listening to the increasingly wild stories of their adventures for so long until she finally slams her hands down on the counter and demands,

“That’s it. I have to meet them.”

Kuroo furrows his brow. “What, you want me to just bring them in?”

“Like show and tell,” Kiyoko suggests. “Except with your boyfriends.” She’s perched on the counter, leaning back a little against the cash register with one leg tucked underneath her and the other dangling down off the side.

“No, no,” Saeko huffs. “There’s nothing to do in this shop but eat bentos and listen to Ke$ha. We should  _ do _ something. Like a double date.”

“Does it count as a double date if there are five of us?” Kiyoko muses. With one hand, she’s picking up rice with her chopsticks; the other is resting on the counter, intertwined with Saeko’s.

“There’s still only two relationships involved,” Kuroo reassures her. “Summer’s almost over - we could do something outside? Since we’ve all been working inside, except Bokuto.” Bokuto is a professional volleyball player, which allows him a bit more freedom than the rest of the group, schedule-wise.

Saeko considers, and then her eyes light up with an idea. “How about the beach? I haven’t been in a while, but I used to take Ryuu swimming a lot, to burn off his energy before he discovered high school sports.”

“That’d be good for Bokuto,” Kuroo mutters to himself.

“Unless you guys wanted to go to a show or something,” Saeko amends, struck by the sudden remembrance that she’s the only one out of the five of them who doesn’t spend most of their free nights at concerts.

“The beach is very punk,” Kiyoko tells her, all seriousness.

Saeko also offers to drive, since her white florist’s van fits five more comfortably than Kiyoko and Kuroo’s Honda Civic. She picks them all up at Kiyoko and Kuroo’s apartment building, bright and early the next Thursday morning. The one who must be Bokuto - splotchy black-silver hair, impressive arm muscles - tumbles out the door first, loaded down with a beach umbrella, several tote bags, a couple of boogie boards, a mesh bag full of sand toys, and a cooler. Behind him follows a man wearing massive sunglasses, neon green skinny jeans, and a pair of black-and-white Doc Martens - that must be Oikawa.

Saeko squints at the shoes as the pair of them approach. “You’re wearing Docs to the beach?”

Oikawa waves an airy hand. “It’s all for the aesthetic. Kou-chan, put the stuff in the back, will you?”

“Sure thing, babe!” Bokuto trundles over, slightly impeded by his burden, and shoves it all unceremoniously into the open back doors of Saeko’s van.

Kiyoko and Kuroo are side by side behind the oddly-matched duo, each carrying a respectably sized bag. They pile in, and as she pulls out of the apartment building’s parking lot, the three men in the backseat squabble over the aux cable for a moment before Kuroo swipes it and passes it up to Kiyoko. Oikawa and Bokuto’s voices rise in an indignant chorus.

“Kuroo, why would you betray me like this!”

“See, Kiyoko has  _ good _ music taste,” Kuroo explains to Oikawa. “I trust her to put on something that doesn’t sound awful.” Saeko doesn’t recognize the opening chords of the song at all, but Kuroo closes his eyes, enjoying. “Classic.” Kiyoko gives him a thumbs up from the front seat.

Oikawa huffs. “Are you saying my music taste is  _ bad?” _

“Mm, no worse than your fashion sense.”

“So, about as quality as your hair?”

“You like my hair-?”

“Hold tight!” Saeko interrupts, and the brakes  _ screeeeeeeeeeech _ as she presses the pedal all the way down to the metal.

Oikawa and Bokuto shriek. Kuroo and Kiyoko both go dead silent. But she stops a solid three centimeters before the white line in front of the red light, so really, it could’ve gone a lot worse.

Saeko glances in the rearview mirror once the van has come to a stop. Kuroo’s hair, somehow, has stood up even more wildly. He removes his hand from the console, where his grip had been whitening his knuckles. “Saeko… Do you think you could drive a little more carefully?”

“I’m driving  _ normally,” _ Saeko informs him. The light turns green, and she slams the gas pedal down this time. The van hurtles forward, rattling a little somewhere in the engine.

“…Ah.” Kuroo pats down his hair. “I see.”

Kiyoko turns her music up.

By the time they get on the highway, Saeko suspects that she’s the only one who still thinks that taking her van was a good decision. Whatever - she’d floored it hard enough that they’d  _ almost _ made it through that last light before yellow turned to red, and there are no new dents in the van, just the old assortment, so Saeko counts the trip as a success. And the highway is empty enough that her driving is rather steady as they shoot down the freeway. As long as nobody glances over at the speedometer, they’ll be fine.

Next to her, Kiyoko lets out a tiny sigh and starts scrolling through her music library enough. After a few minutes, the backseat relaxes enough to start chattering. When they’re about midway there, Saeko hears a little rustling, then Kuroo’s voice-

“God, those are the biggest sunglasses I’ve ever seen.”

“The bigger my sunglasses are, the more powerful I become,” Oikawa explains. “They make me terrifying.”

“Do they?” Saeko chimes in, carefully casual.

“I’ve never met anyone with more powerful sunglasses than mine,” Oikawa answers, dead serious.

Without saying a word, Saeko reaches into the console of the van and pulls out a pair of absolutely massive sunglasses with ridiculous amounts of fake flowers superglued to the frames - the pride of her life, the Lady Gaga of sunglasses, sunglasses that are to being sunglasses as David Bowie is to glitter and spandex. She slides them onto her face and raises an eyebrow in the mirror.

Bokuto hoots with delight at Oikawa’s cry of distress. Kuroo just pats him on the shoulder, smugly patronizing. “Don’t mind, don’t mind.”

“What _ ever,” _ Oikawa huffs. “We’re coming up on our exit anyway.”

The beach - one that Oikawa knows from bygone training camps, apparently - is one of those places that Saeko looks at on Pinterest when she needs inspiration for new arrangements. There’s a tiny town that can’t have more than five year-round residents, with a gas station, a seafood restaurant, a beach supplies store where Kuroo tries to convince Bokuto that they don’t need a six-thousand-yen blow-up purple gorilla floatie and Oikawa happily sabotages him by musing loudly about how much fun it would be to get it. When they reach the sandy road that runs just inside the dunes, there’s a row of houses painted like a pastel rainbow, colors soft and creamy in the mid-morning sun. And the beach itself is deserted, except for them.

“It isn’t really a surprise,” Kiyoko points out as they pull into a sand-covered lot with tough seagrass poking up between cracks in the concrete. “Summer break ended a while ago.”

“I just can’t really conceptualize having a summer break,” Saeko admits. Kiyoko laughs at her, and she flushes. “Well, it’s been five years since Ryuu was dealing with a school schedule! And almost twice that for me.”

“We’re just all getting old.”

“Whatever,” Saeko grumbles as she puts the car in park and turns it off. “You know, I wonder sometimes - maybe I should’ve been doing this back then, cutting school on a Thursday to go to the beach in August.” She’d had good friends in high school, but there hadn’t been much time for things like this - not with a younger brother to feed and clothe and cart around. “It feels like it’s all happening backwards, somehow.”

Kiyoko reaches across the console and flicks her on the shoulder. “The fact that you’re saying things like that proves that you’re just as old as your actual age. Come on, grandma, our rowdy backseat is already out.”

“I’m gonna be the  _ coolest _ grandma,” Saeko argues as they emerge. “I’m gonna wear leather and ride a motorcycle and show up at the elementary school to scare off my grandkids’ bullies.”

“And arrange flowers,” Kiyoko puts in.

“Oh, you know it.”

“Well, I’m excited to see it,” Kiyoko assures her.

Oikawa, in protest of Saeko’s driving skills, has spilled out of the van looking about as green as his terrible jeans. Bokuto has hopped out after him, entirely unaffected as Oikawa sits down bodily on the lot and moans in agony.

Kuroo, the last one out of the backseat, is nudging Oikawa with his foot. “Get up, you drama queen.”

“Tetsu-chan, I’m in  _ pain!” _

“You’re a  _ baby.” _

Oikawa, maturely, sticks out his tongue at his boyfriend. Kuroo sticks his tongue out right back, with an accompanying  _ nyeh. _ Kiyoko, probably wisely, ignores them and heads around to the back of the van. “Bokuto, could you come here?”

“Sure thing, Shimizu-san!” Bokuto trundles around to the back of the van and holds out his arms in front of him. Kiyoko loads him up like a cargo ship, while Kuroo prises Oikawa off the pavement and Saeko digs out the three respectably sized beach bags (hers, Kiyoko’s, and Kuroo’s) from Oikawa’s stuff.

Bokuto heads off over the dunes like his own one-man wagon train. Kuroo happily follows, towing Oikawa, who is whining more for the philosophy of the thing than anything at this point. Saeko glances over at Kiyoko, and flushes bright under her humongous sunglasses when she realizes Kiyoko was already staring back.

Saeko kicks off her flip-flops and crams them into her bag, and Kiyoko takes off her shoes and follows.

They climb over the dunes barefoot and hand in hand, sliding backwards and forwards and into each other. In the morning sunlight, the ocean is blinding bright.

It’s about nine o’clock when they finally start setting up their blanket. Saeko and Kiyoko struggle to bury the umbrella deep enough that it stays up, but the sand is too loose.

“We could just have Kuroo hold it and stand in the same place all day,” Saeko offers.

“Hmm,” says Kiyoko. “Kuroo-”

“No,” Kuroo tells her. “Get a bucket and pour water on it so it solidifies.”

“…Oh.”

Kiyoko finds a bucket in the bag of sand toys, and the two of them head down towards the water.

“Our way would’ve worked too,” Saeko mumbles under her breath as she leans down to fill it up.

Kiyoko pats her arm. “It would’ve, it would’ve.”

Back up at the blanket, they get the umbrella sorted out, with Saeko still shooting contemplative looks between Kuroo and the umbrella every so often. And then Kiyoko murmurs something about swimming, and she and Saeko are both shedding their outer layers, down to Kiyoko’s simple black one-piece and Saeko’s flowery halter top. Bokuto has opted for black swim trunks with outlined white thigh and pelvis bones, which kind of reminds Saeko of the clothes Ryuu wore during his short-lived middle school emo phase. Kuroo’s trunks look punk too, but on closer inspection, they’re actually Death Note themed. And Oikawa is still wearing-

“Are you guys coming?” Kiyoko asks the other three.

Kuroo glances over at her and heaves an overdramatic sigh. “Well, we  _ would, _ if  _ someone _ weren’t fussing-”

Oikawa sniffs. “I don’t want to get sand in my Docs.”

“Then why did you bring them to the  _ beach?” _

“The  _ aesthetic, _ Tetsu-chan, we’ve been  _ over _ this.”

“You’re such a  _ loser,” _ Kuroo tells him.

Oikawa scowls.  _ “You’re the one who owns a snapback that says Ain’t No Waifu on it-” _

“You’re both losers!” says Bokuto. “Let’s go swimming!”

Oikawa frowns. “I’m not even in my  _ swimsuit.” _

While the three of them bicker, Kiyoko shoots Saeko a meaningful look. Quietly, Saeko slips her hand into Kiyoko’s, and they head down towards the-

“Saeko,” Kuroo calls after her, “aren’t you forgetting something?”

Saeko pauses and glances back at him. “Huh?”

Kuroo raises an eyebrow, expectant. At her quizzical look, he sighs very deeply.  _ “Sunscreen. _ On your tattoo. So it doesn’t fade. Did you ever read that sheet I gave-”

“Oh, thanks!” Saeko interrupts. She spins on her heel and strides back up towards the blanket, pulling her girlfriend along with her. “Kiyoko, can you get me?”

“Sure,” says Kiyoko. “And you should get mine, too.”

Kuroo grumbles in disapproval for a moment, but he isn’t as disgruntled after Bokuto and Oikawa catch him by either arm to rub his inked arms and shoulders down with sunscreen too. And after that, Bokuto and Kuroo drag a protesting Oikawa over to the rickety changing hut and reemerge several noisy minutes later with him in a pair of Spongebob swim trunks, complaining to high heaven.

Kiyoko and Saeko have already headed in. Even in late August, the water is chilly - but it feels like it’s been eons since Saeko splashed around in the sea, since the sun and salt soaked into her skin. And when she clambers onto Kiyoko’s shoulders to mock fight with Bokuto, who has insisted that he be the one carried on a wheezing Kuroo’s shoulders (with Oikawa as a blatantly biased referee), she doesn’t really mind that it’s a four-way loss when they all tumble down into the waves again.

It’s a full few hours later when they climb out of the water, limbs finally numbing in the cold. Kiyoko and Oikawa are dead set on building a sandcastle, and they immediately start sorting through the various sand toys in the mesh bag. Meanwhile, Kuroo stretches out on the blanket, and before long, he’s yawning and rolling onto his stomach to nap.

“Loser,” Saeko snorts at him. Kuroo just flaps a dismissive hand at her. “I’m not tired at all yet.”

“Neither am I!” Bokuto says. “Let’s play something!”

Saeko examines him. “Like what?”

“Volleyball!”

Bokuto is a pro volleyball player, but Saeko isn’t about to let that stop her. She cracks her knuckles. “Sounds good, let’s go!”

“You have no net,” Kiyoko points out.

“Or volleyball,” Oikawa adds.

“Oh.” That definitely puts a damper on things. Saeko falls silent, and Bokuto stares glumly at the sand.

“There’s a game in the beach toys bag,” Kuroo says into the blanket.

Bokuto brightens instantly. “I love you!” he says down to Kuroo’s back.

Kuroo raises a sleepy hand. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

They find the rough velcro paddles and a soft velcro ball in the beach toys bag and head down to the waterline to play. Bokuto has the reflexes and stamina of a professional athlete, but Saeko has the intensity of a small blonde steam train, so it’s a pretty even match. They give up after Saeko whacks the ball into the ocean, further down the beach than either of them cares to chase it, and wander back up the beach. Kiyoko and Oikawa have abandoned their sand castle and are sitting on either side of Kuroo’s prostrate body, heads bent together over him in a suspiciously conniving manner.

Bokuto has to pee, so he heads into the ocean while Saeko comes up to the blanket and looks curiously down at her neighbors. “What are you doing?”

“Shhh,” they hiss in unison. Saeko falls silent, although she’s intrigued. Oikawa is holding the bottle of sunscreen, and Kiyoko is carefully applying it to Kuroo’s back. No, not applying it - drawing something.

Saeko leans in closer -  _ oh. _ A happy throng of cartoon sunscreen dicks dances across Kuroo’s back.

Oikawa looks up at Saeko, all wide-eyed innocence. “You aren’t going to tell him, are you?”

“Not a word,” Saeko whispers back. She points at a spot near the base of his spine. “You could put another little one there-”

“What’s going on up there?” comes Kuroo’s drowsy voice from underneath his head. The three of them freeze.

“Um,” says Saeko.

Kuroo lifts his head up, face half-slack and scrunched up with sleep, and squinches his eyes in confusion at the crowd of his friends above him. “Wh-what were you guys doing?”

“Reapplying your sunscreen,” Kiyoko answers smoothly. “You fell asleep, so you were going to burn all weirdly.”

Kuroo narrows his eyes at her, but apparently he can’t detect any lies - well, technically, she  _ isn’t _ lying. With a great sigh, he collapses back down again. “Well, carry on.”

Very, very quietly, Saeko and Oikawa high-five. Next to her, Saeko can see that Kiyoko is grinning.

* * *

The sun’s high in the sky and Kuroo has woken up for good by the time they pull the bentos out of the cooler. They’re delicious, as always - Saeko doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to how good Kiyoko is at cooking.

Er-

“I love your bentos so much,” Bokuto sighs, already on his third (Kiyoko must have made extra for him). He presses his forehead briefly against Kuroo’s shoulder.

“Special for you, babe,” Kuroo tells him, craning his neck to plant a kiss on the top of Bokuto’s head.

Abruptly, it hits Saeko that Kuroo must have told Bokuto and Oikawa that the bentos were made by him. She chokes on her rice and starts coughing. Alarmed, Oikawa thumps her back a few times. “Saeko, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she manages, though it’s half-strangled. She clears her throat and tries again. “I’m fine.”

Ah, who is she to break their illusion.

After lunch, Kiyoko pulls a book - something tattered, with a forest on the cover - out of her bag and settles down on her back. Over the top of the pages, she raises an eyebrow at Saeko, cutting her eyes down to the space on the blanket on her other side. Saeko beams and flops down next to her on her stomach, propping her chin on her folded arms so she can watch the waves.

They rest in quiet for a few minutes before Bokuto, who is still vibrating with energy, springs to his feet. “Alright, let’s go swimming again!”

Oikawa has settled down on Kiyoko’s other side, wearing his huge sunglasses and a floppy sunhat out of one of his bags. He raises the sunglasses to give Bokuto an unimpressed look. “Sorry, no can do. You’re not supposed to go swimming for half an hour after you eat.”

“That’s bullshit! You just want to be lazy!” Without warning, he lunges down and scoops up Oikawa from the blanket. Oikawa squeaks and starts squirming - but it’s no use. The sunglasses and hat fall to the ground, and Bokuto throws Oikawa over his shoulder and jogs down towards the water, not letting him down until the surf is up to his waist. Kuroo follows a few feet back, snickering in undisguised glee at his boyfriend’s indignant whines.

Once they’re in the water, Bokuto releases Oikawa, who is immediately bowled over by a massive breaker. He surfaces, spluttering and spitting, and a laughing Bokuto scoops him up just in time to lift him over the next wave. Oikawa shakes out his once-fluffy hair, now plastered against the sides of his head, and wraps his arms around Bokuto’s neck to cling to him as another wave crashes down - and then Kuroo jumps on the both of them, sending their whole menagerie tumbling down into the water with a chorus of startled shouts.

Saeko would normally head into the water too, but the post-lunch food coma is sluggish in her limbs, and the sun is just the right degree of warm on her back. She doesn’t notice herself drifting until she’s already floating down into sleep.

* * *

Subconsciousness recedes several hours later, leaving Saeko’s fluttering eyelids blinking away the wisps of fading dreams as voices and waves and salt in the air come back into focus.

The sun is soaking into the horizon like melted sherbert, a puddle spreading out in orange and lavender and gold. Down by the water, Kuroo is attempting to convince Bokuto to take a picture of him in perspective, so it looks like he’s holding the setting sun between his fingers. Oikawa, who has propped his chin on Bokuto’s shoulder and looped his arms around Bokuto’s waist, is calling out instructions.

“Move your hand a little left, Tetsu-chan,” he tells him. Kuroo moves his fingers to Oikawa’s left. “No,  _ your _ left. Ugh, up a little - no, that’s too much-”

On the screen, Saeko can see Bokuto gleefully tapping away at the shutter button to fill up Kuroo’s camera roll with spam. Kuroo’s hand is nowhere near the sun.

The waves are swirling around Kuroo’s ankles and washing up onto the shore. Saeko’s skin is warm with sun and sand and salt, all melting together into a contented glow of friendship and summer and love that settles deep into her chest and makes itself at home.

Kiyoko is shifting around next to her. Saeko doesn’t realize that she’s moving her book into one hand until Kiyoko’s newly freed fingers twine through Saeko’s on the blanket.

It’s the little things, Saeko thinks, idle. The snapshots she’ll remember. Kiyoko’s slim fingers, fitting with hers as though they were never made to hold anyone else. The sand between her toes, the salt-tousle of her hair, the sunshine in her skin. Bentos and laughter on a cloudy day’s lunch-break when her flower shop is filled with light. Sherbert sunsets, washing away the last traces of a lazy August afternoon, the last traces of a summer that’s been slow and deep and timeless.

As the sun finally sinks into the ocean, Kuroo splashes out of the surf and joins the other two a bit up the beach, trying to see the pictures. Oikawa, who has slipped the phone into the back pocket of Bokuto’s swim trunks, confidently assures him that they came out fine and there’s no need to worry about them now. Kuroo seems utterly unconvinced, but Saeko tunes out their bickering in favor of rubbing her thumb in even, slow circles along the smooth hollow of Kiyoko’s palm. She turns her head slightly so she can study Kiyoko’s forearms, the barbed wire in sharp detail tracing over her tendons and muscles, the deep red roses in full bloom.

Kiyoko is too absorbed in reading to notice her best friend and his boyfriends pattering up the sand until Kuroo nudges her with his wet foot. She startles and drops the book on her face, and then lies perfectly still as Kuroo starts braying his terrible laugh. Saeko rolls onto her back to snicker in harmony,  and Kiyoko reaches up to carefully pluck the volume off her face. Underneath, her face is completely neutral.

“Can I help you,” she deadpans.

Ha. Saeko knows her well enough to catch the amusement lurking under the facade of annoyance. Clearly, Kuroo does, too, because he just grins down at the pair of them and hooks one thumb over the back of his shoulder at Bokuto and Oikawa. “The three of us are heading out. It’s date night tonight, and Oikawa wanted to try out that seafood place we passed on the way in.”

Saeko sits up and narrows her eyes at Kuroo. “Are you sure this isn’t just a scheme to avoid driving all the way back in my car?”

“We’ll load up the car for you before we leave,” Oikawa smoothly assures her, raising his voice to drown out Bokuto saying something that sounds suspiciously like, “Yes!”

“And I have a friend nearby who can drive us back when we’re done.”

“I wouldn’t really call Mad Dog a  _ friend,” _ Kuroo mutters.

“Nonsense,” Oikawa retorts. “He’d do anything for his old senpai.”

Kuroo mumbles something doubtful, but he doesn’t seem too concerned about it. That’s the kind of summer it’s been, really - making it up as they go. The three men gather up the sand toys and the umbrella and the cooler and Oikawa’s six beach bags, and there’s a flurry of goodbyes. The last Saeko hears of them is Kuroo’s faint voice saying, “Hey, all these pictures are _awful,”_ as they walk away - and then they’re gone, leaving Kiyoko and Saeko alone on the beach as the quiet dusk settles around them.

Saeko stretches her arms high, pulls her head to one side to crack her neck. And then she looks down at Kiyoko. “So, should we-”

Kiyoko’s hands slide around the back of Saeko’s neck and draw her down. Saeko’s words are muffled into a  _ mmpfh. _

They climb into the van significantly later, with Saeko’s hair mussed to rival Kuroo himself and Kiyoko’s lips pink and swollen. Summer’s almost over - and yet Saeko realizes, as Kiyoko gives her directions and sings snatches of songs along with the radio and gently suggests that Saeko brake a little sooner before stoplights, that she’s never actually been inside Kiyoko and Kuroo’s apartment.

It’s a little place in one of Torono’s few apartment buildings. Saeko hesitates for the first time all day as a sign in the lot directs, DROP-OFFS RIGHT, PARKING LEFT.

“Left,” Kiyoko says.

Saeko wonders if Kiyoko’s home would be quite so perfect even if the last traces of sunset weren’t lingering rosy in the stone of the building, if the air conditioning in the lobby weren’t cool and soothing on her skin after a long day in the sun, if the elevator up weren’t playing Ke$ha.

She thinks about the word  _ left _ on Kiyoko’s lips, and she thinks perhaps it would.

The place is small - a living room with a low table, a kitchen, a short hallway leading to what appear through the open doors to be bedrooms. None of the furniture matches, and tacked up on one wall of the living room is a hodgepodge of faded, fraying posters from concerts and festivals long gone by, once black, now shades of grey and aging brown. Saeko leaves her shoes next to Kiyoko’s by the door and squints at a vaguely guitar-shaped case resting against a side table. “You play guitar?”

“I don’t,” says Kiyoko, “but Kuroo does play ukulele.”

“Oh.”

They take turns in the shower - Kiyoko first, while Saeko leans against the counter in her kitchen and examines the peeling linoleum and the stained coffeepot and the mismatched bouquet of leftover flowers that Saeko brought her two days ago stuck in a glassful of water above the sink, and then Saeko. She borrows Kiyoko’s shampoo, inhales Kiyoko’s scent deeply when she squeezes a small dollop into her palm.

“You’re sniffing my shampoo in there, aren’t you,” says the bathroom door.

Saeko jerks away, unreasonably guilty. “I - I am  _ n-” _ Oh, whatever. “Yeah.”

Kiyoko just laughs at her.

When she emerges from the bathroom in a borrowed set of Kiyoko’s shorts and a deep blue tank top, there’s a mug of tea on either side of the kitchen table. One mug is clasped in Kiyoko’s hands, the other is waiting with a curl of steam rising up from the surface. Saeko slips into the chair opposite her and sips slowly, waiting for her hair to dry in the air conditioning.

“My first show,” Kiyoko says, “was in high school. I was fifteen.”

Her words sound like the beginning of a story. Saeko inclines her head for her to continue.

“I went with my cousin, because she didn’t want to go alone,” Kiyoko continues. “I was a beautiful young girl. I wore Mary Janes and stockings and a pleated skirt. I had never listened to punk music before in my life.

“And then the show started. And it was mismatched and offbeat, but the bass was quick and the chords were powerful and the drums were furious. I don’t remember the name of the band. But I remember that I had never seen anyone with so much fire in their voice as the frontwoman. She cried out once, in the middle of a song, that they’d all told us to hold ourselves in and quiet ourselves down and iron ourselves out, but that we were here to scream and be messy and flawed and imperfect. That she wanted us to sing out everything we’d ever kept back.

“I fell into the mosh pit by accident, and I didn’t leave for the next two hours. I had never been so raw. I felt like I had spent my entire life sleepwalking and I was finally awake. I felt like my veins had been running with water until I left the show and they first flowed with blood.”

It could be the air conditioning, but Saeko shivers.

“I am my own,” Kiyoko says. “I am messy, and flawed, and imperfect. And I am human.”

Saeko is spinning slow as the years. She and Kiyoko began with the summer, but they aren’t ending with it. This does not feel like a beginning, because she cannot imagine an ending. They are not a story, but a lifetime.

Kiyoko, Saeko thinks, is the most human person she’s ever met.

“You’re quiet,” Kiyoko observes.

“I’m happy,” Saeko explains, and it’s never been so true.

Kiyoko considers this, and then one corner of her mouth lifts in a smile. “I’m glad.”

“What about you?” Saeko inquires, voice soft like it never is.

“I’ve never been happier,” Kiyoko answers. “With the shop, and with Kuroo, and, well.” She inclines her head towards Saeko across the table, takes another sip of tea.

“I’ve been meaning to ask. For a while, now.” Saeko props one elbow up the table, her chin on her hand. “Why do you do it? The tattoos, I mean.”

For a few minutes, the only sound is the ticking of the battered plastic clock on the wall of the kitchen. Saeko’s beginning to think Kiyoko isn’t going to answer - but then she says,

“Because of love.”

Saeko waits for Kiyoko to go on. And she does, quiet and mellifluous as ever, as she stares into her cup.

“Getting a tattoo hurts, and once it’s done, it’s on your body forever. When someone gets a tattoo, they need to be strong to go through that. And so, they pick a design of something they really, truly, love. A name, or a picture, or a symbol of something bigger.”

“Like your roses,” Saeko supplies.

Kiyoko nods. “I think that getting a tattoo shows that strength comes from love, more than from fear or anger or greed. When someone gets a tattoo, they’re showing the entire world what they love most, and that that’s what gives them their strength.”

Saeko’s hand rises to touch the dragons curled up on her shoulders, and her mind flashes unbidden to Ryuu, to the lean years she spent counting hundred-yen coins to put dinner in his stomach.

“You can’t really create good art of something unless you love it,” Kiyoko continues. “And I love creating art out of people’s strength and love. More than anything.”

She pauses for a moment, and then adds, “Of course, that’s only most of the time. There are also the people who come in wanting a tattoo of a naked elf woman on their butt, or something. I won’t name names.” She chuckles, and the moment’s gone from the air, but it’s settled deep and warm and steady into Saeko’s chest.

And then the steps fall into place one after another - Saeko’s eyes flicking towards the clock, her offhanded observation that it’s getting late, the finality of the last sip of tea. And Kiyoko asks,

“Would you like to stay the night?”

Saeko stands up from the table, walks around it to Kiyoko, and kisses her all the way to her bedroom. They linger in the doorway for a moment, with Saeko’s arms looped around Kiyoko’s neck and Kiyoko’s hands resting gently on Saeko’s waist, breathing in each other’s lips.

“Come with me,” Kiyoko murmurs, and she leads Saeko to where the last rays of deep violet sunset trickle through the blinds and falls in stripes across her sheets. Kiyoko’s bed is messy, unmade, and Saeko is peculiarly delighted by it.

Then Kiyoko’s hair spreads like dark tangled seaweed against her pillow, and her fingers flutter graceful against the crumpled sheets and then curl in to clutch at them under Saeko’s touch - and from between her legs, some absent part of Saeko’s mind wonders if Kiyoko isn’t divine after all.

* * *

Afterwards, they lie curled around each other, Kiyoko dropping gentle kisses to Saeko’s fingers caught between hers. With her free hand, Saeko traces the lines of ink on Kiyoko’s skin, watches the way they contract and shift with Kiyoko’s steady, even breaths.

“Can you tell me what they’re for?” she whispers after a while, voice rough and scratchy from disuse.

Kiyoko nods, drops Saeko’s hand and pushes herself up into a sitting position. Saeko sits up too, watching her curiously.

First, Kiyoko stretches out one arm, long and lean and graceful, to show her the barbed-wire sleeves Saeko is already familiar with. “For danger in beauty,” she explains. “Because I’ve always been beautiful, but for a long time, I hated it. I hated the attention of men, because, well - you know.” She motions towards the vague concept of herself and Saeko, the gesture endearingly adorable in its awkwardness. “I hated the way they always talked over me, always looked at me like I didn’t have eyes.”

The bitterness in her voice is palpable, and Saeko rests one hand on Kiyoko’s knee, rubbing soothing circles into the skin. “What happened?”

“I went to a punk show when I was fifteen,” Kiyoko says. Even in the dim vestiges of twilight, Saeko can see the glint in her eyes and the satisfied curl of her smile as she continues, “And then I learned to use it.”

Saeko raises one eyebrow, silent encouragement to go on.

“Nobody pays too much attention to what you say when you look like me,” Kiyoko explains, wicked grin still in her voice. “It’s… Usually their mistake.”

“And the barbed wire is to keep people like that out?”

“It can be,” Kiyoko agrees. “But it can also-” and she slips her arms around Saeko’s waist, wrapping her in an embrace of roses and spikes- “protect.”

Well, it’s a damn good thing Saeko doesn’t have a ring handy, because at this, she just might’ve proposed to Kiyoko on the spot.

“You’re wonderful,” she tells her collarbone instead, hoping that Kiyoko will understand.

From the softness in Kiyoko’s  eyes as she releases Saeko and draws back, it’s clear that she does.

She also shifts around to show Saeko her next tattoo: down the elegant lines of her angel bones and back, a pair of half-folded wings, feathered glossy and black. Saeko’s seen parts of them before, but never the full tattoo.

“For my high school volleyball team,” she explains over her shoulder as Saeko’s fingers trail down her bare skin. “The crows.”

“They were very important to you?”

Kiyoko dips her head in a nod. “They taught me how to fly.”

Saeko bends her head to kiss the roots of each wing, where the feathers fade into fuzzy down. Then she kisses up Kiyoko’s spine to her neck and sucks briefly at the soft skin just beneath her jaw, and Kiyoko relaxes back into her, warm as ever against Saeko’s chest.

“What about the ones on your stomach?” Saeko breathes into Kiyoko’s ear after a while, when Kiyoko is starting to shift and fidget under the attention of her lips. She splays out her hands against Kiyoko’s hips, and the pads of her fingers press against the tiny bundle of flowers nestled just inside the jut of Kiyoko’s right hipbone.

The quivery tone of Kiyoko’s response settles hot and liquid between Saeko’s legs. “Ah - my first tattoo, actually - they’re violets.”

Well, Saeko doesn’t need  _ that _ one explained to her. Her hands slide lower, into the V formed by her hipbones - Kiyoko’s legs twitch open, and Saeko’s fingers flicker across the smooth, sensitive skin of her inner thighs, the twisted ink tangle of vines there. “And these?” she murmurs into Kiyoko’s ear.

Kiyoko tips her head back to rest on Saeko’s shoulder, baring the pale curve of her neck. Her lips part slightly as Saeko nibbles a slow, lazy line down towards her collarbone. Between her legs, Saeko keeps rubbing gentle, regular circles into her inner thighs, waiting for a response.

“For intimacy,” Kiyoko gasps, uneven, and then she’s moaning soft and shaky as Saeko’s fingers creep higher.

* * *

Even without an alarm clock, Saeko wakes up at the crack of dawn - it’s force of habit at this point. But with the soft newborn sunrise through the window soaking pale pink and gold into Kiyoko’s skin next to her, she’s far too content to be disgruntled about it.

She’s stirring, but Kiyoko is still asleep - glasses folded on the nightstand, wing tattoos bare where the blanket’s fallen away from them, a tiny puddle of drool dampening the pillow next to her half-open mouth. Saeko yawns enormously, stretches as best as she can without disturbing her, and then settles back down onto the sheets.

Unfortunately, Saeko also really has to pee, and she’s trapped between Kiyoko and the wall. She attempts a sort of crab-walk climb over Kiyoko’s body, but she’s caught midway by a pair of hands catching a firm hold on her hips, drawing her down on top of a no-longer-asleep Kiyoko. One of the hands grazes up Saeko’s back and the dragons on her shoulders, cups the back of her head to pull her down into a lazy, languid kiss.

Saeko, charitably, does not point out the line of dried drool trailing from one corner of her mouth. It’s cute, honestly.

“Good morning,” Kiyoko murmurs. She doesn’t wait for a response before kissing down Saeko’s jawline, sucking light marks into the skin of her neck. Saeko isn’t really one to turn down some morning macking, but after a moment, she’s forced to say:

“Kiyoko.”

“Mmm?”

“I  _ really _ have to pee.”

Kiyoko lets her go, albeit reluctantly. “Mm, hurry back.” Her voice is soft, gentle.

Tanaka Saeko has never peed so quickly in her life.

When she comes back, Kiyoko has swung her legs over the side of the bed and is blinking at the window in an attempt to wake herself up. She’s pulled on a pair of pajama shorts, but Saeko can still see her vines, her violets, her roses, her wings.

Saeko thumps down cross-legged down onto the bed next to her. Kiyoko’s hand finds its way into hers, and shifts it over to rest on Kiyoko’s thigh, on the gnarled, knotty vines. “Is Kuroo here?” Saeko asks. “Or can I put off getting dressed for another three hours?”

“Kuroo?” Kiyoko blinks, and then smiles like a secret. “Oh - between you and me, I don’t think Kuroo was ever planning on coming home tonight.”

Saeko hums with understanding. “So, we can eat breakfast without putting shirts on.”

They can, and they do. Saeko finds two plates and two sets of chopsticks for the kitchen table while Kiyoko microwaves some rice and a rolled omelet out of the fridge. Even reheated, the omelet is delicious, and Saeko sighs with happiness as she shovels the first bite into her mouth. “This is amazing.”

“It is,” Kiyoko agrees.

“I just might kick Kuroo out and move in with you,” Saeko mumbles around her mouthful. “It’s a crime, really, eating exclusively microwave food after tasting your cooking.”

Kiyoko tilts her head. “Pardon?”

“The-” Saeko falters, suddenly unsure, and swallows the rest of her bite with difficulty. “The… bentos? I mean, I haven’t had  _ that _ much of your cooking, but-”

Kiyoko stares for a moment, then starts spilling over with giggles, and Saeko can’t help but smile, albeit in slight bemusement.

“Sorry,” Kiyoko finally manages, “it’s just - Kuroo made those.”

Saeko blinks.

“The omelet, too. I can’t cook to save my life,” Kiyoko adds, still half-laughing. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you thought-”

But Saeko is cackling too. “God, no - it’s my fault, I shouldn’t have assumed-”

Kiyoko slides her glasses off briefly to wipe tears from her eyes, then returns them to her face. “So, you’ll have to move in with Kuroo if you want that cooking round-the-clock, I’m afraid.”

“He’s too tall,” Saeko mutters, and Kiyoko, as beautiful and terrible at cooking and human as ever, starts laughing again.


End file.
